


Not Quite The Pink Panty Story

by jane_potter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crossdressing, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Other, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley wears female undergarments. Appropriately, they are very slinky. And purple. Aziraphale is intrigued, particularly when Crowley discovers a new and unusual side effect of having Aziraphale see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite The Pink Panty Story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for anon at the Good Omens kink meme, who asked for "Aziraphale/Crowley, slinky women's lingerie ("But I just like the way it feels!")". It's strange how few GO fics remain true to Aziraphale's normally "sexless" nature, so I tried to explore that while also including, you know, kink. I also confess a certain weakness for men in panties since finding out about Dean's "pink panty story" in the Supernatural fandom, so, yeah. I like how this turned out. :) **Mouse over the numbers to read the high-tech footnotes.**

"Crowley, your coffee-making, er, _thing_ , it won't-- _Goodness_."

"Don't touch my espresso machine; I've only just made it submit."

"Er."

"Bloody American technology. Most arrogance you'll ever see in inanimate objects, take it from me."

"Um. Er--"

Irritably, Crowley looked over his shoulder from the walk-in closet full of designer suits whose material cost dollars to the yard and whose labels cost fifty times that, none of which went to the children in impoverished countries who had made the suits. "Come off the monosyllables, Aziraphale," he snapped. "You didn't drink that much last night. Just miracle the hangover away."

"That's cheating," Aziraphale replied automatically, momentarily dragged back onto more stable ground by the demon's tone.

Crowley scoffed. "And sobering up before the hangover sets in isn't?" He hunted about in the closet for a bit and then tossed several silk ties over his shoulder, muttering absently as he compared the colours. "Gold, amber or whiskey?"

"Purple," Aziraphale's mouth said, quite without his brain's consent.

"Well, I suppose you didn't say tartan," said Crowley silkily, in a voice that suggested that really didn't mean anything at all.

"Er. No. Your--" Aziraphale coughed-- "--undergarments."

"I'm not colour-coordinating with those. Nobody's going to see them," Crowley pointed out, very reasonably (and very densely, in Aziraphale's opinion), still preoccupied with his suits.

Aziraphale peered more closely, just to make sure Crowley's nonchalance didn't mean he'd missed some new-fangled fashion trend. He was just as sure on the second glance that no, those really were the kind of underwear he'd seen modelled by plastic dummies in the front windows of the stores by his bookstore. There were rather a lot fewer ribbons than Naughti Nites usually advertised, though, and a complete lack of the leather that the Mistresses Untie dummies wore. Plus, Aziraphale definitely recognised the garter belt holding up Crowley's sheer purple stockings.

Pleased to have finally caught Crowley out in a cultural gaff, Aziraphale pointed out a touch smugly, "You do know those are generally for women."

Crowley shifted, a trace of awkwardness finally creeping into his stance, but kept his back to Aziraphale. The shift of his weight to the other leg made the muscles of his mostly-exposed rear flex beneath the deep purple lace in some very interesting ways. Aziraphale experienced a sudden flash of retroactive understanding of just what it was about underwear that might have made so many humans bonkers for the women wearing it.

 _Clever_ , he thought, at the same time as, _Bet Eve didn't imagine her fig leaves leading to this_ (1).

"They're called boyshorts," Crowley muttered, almost burying his nose in his tie rack. "Amber, then. I thought I told you to make coffee."

"No you didn't." Having regained most of his equilibrium, Aziraphale prodded delicately, "Silk, my dear? Really."

"I just like the way it feels," said Crowley sulkily.

"Since when do you get dressed by hand?" pressed Aziraphale. "And your closet-- I thought you said that was just for show."

Crowley's ears had gone a definite shade of red. "Thought I'd change it up this morning. But if you're going to _nag_ \--" He gestured with one hand and stood fully dressed, the knot of his amber tie snugged defensively up to his throat so tightly that it would have strangled a human.

"Oh, no," Aziraphale said before he could stop himself.

Crowley stared, snake's eyes catching the colour of his tie and the early afternoon sunlight streaming in through the bedroom's plate glass windows. It was very unfair of him, Aziraphale thought sourly.

"No?" Crowley repeated slowly. The faint but definite note of caution in his voice made Aziraphale infinitely better.

"No. I wasn't. Nagging, that is."

"No to the suit, angel?"

"Oh, well, I--"

"Liked the knickers, did you?

"Well--"

"I think they're fantastic, myself. Cling like anything."

"I just--"

"Want to see them again, then?"

Coming from Crowley, who hadn't taken pity on anybody since Joan of Arc, the magnanimity was rare and special. Blushing furiously, Aziraphale nodded.

"Sit down," said Crowley, nodding towards the twin beds where they had slept off their drunk the previous night, Aziraphale's sheets politely made and Crowley's still rucked down to the baseboard. His tie hissed as it slid loose. "It'ssss even more fun taking clothes off."

"By hand? I thought you didn't like to-- oh. _Oh_."

Crowley smirked over his shoulder and carelessly tossed his shirt on the floor, the wiry muscles underneath his too-pale skin playing over his skinny ribs and shoulder blades. That, however, did nothing to distract from the sleek spill of poisonously purple scales trailing down Crowley's back, from the nape of his neck, along his somewhat knobby spine and down to the bare edge of equally purple lace showing above the back of his trousers.

Despite his apparent confidence, Crowley shivered visibly, and the scales, shiny and limned with bruise-black at their edges, rippled.

"I have more," Crowley said to the far wall, sliding his trousers down with what Aziraphale felt was an unnecessary amount of hip-shimmying. He couldn't imagine what Crowley was finding so hard about taking off a pair of slacks. Then what Crowley had said caught up to him.

Amazingly, it turned out to be possible to tear his eyes away, if only to dart them in the direction of Crowley's bureau. He couldn't stare long, however, as that was the moment Crowley bent over to unclip his garters-- golden serpents' heads on purple silk straps, with the fangs used to clip up the stockings.

"Really, now," murmured Aziraphale, but it emerged rather more weakly than he'd intended.

Crowley apparently took it as an inquiry rather than a comment on the garter belt, which he flicked to the floor. "Mm. But they don't match quite ssso well."

Still bent over, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he rolled down the stockings with unusual deliberation. Aziraphale watched helplessly as the sheer lace undergarments rode higher up Crowley's buttocks, exposing more of the pale lower curve.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, wondering just how long Crowley had spent looking for underwear that _did_ match his scales perfectly. "Well. Can't have everything."

"No?" Finally naked except for the-- it was really too small a scrap of fabric to be properly called a _garment_ , come to think of it-- Crowley turned around.

"Oh, really. Is that amount of effort necessary?"

"Wasn't trying that hard," Crowley muttered, glaring down at the part of him that was currently making a great deal of effort all on its own, long and curved up against his belly, straining hard against the purple lace.

"Is it painful?" Aziraphale asked, fascinated despite himself. He almost got up to look closer, then remembered Crowley's instructions to sit.

Crowley regarded it more thoughtfully. "No. Not really, I guess. Not exactly comfortable, though."

One foot locked absently behind the other ankle, one hand on hip, Crowley rubbed one experimental thumb up the curve of it, through the lace. Aziraphale watched the jut of his bony hip and the twitch of his toes in the pristine white carpet.

"How is it?"

Crowley hissed impatiently. "I don't know. Kind of nice. Weird."

"Haven't you done this before?"

"The knickers? Loads."

"No, I mean, the--" Aziraphale waved a hand.

"Here and there," Crowley said vaguely. "Now would you-- oooohwoah."

Aziraphale was at Crowley's side and supporting the abruptly weak-kneed demon before he had a chance to realise that he'd broken Crowley's "sit down" rule.

"Maybe you should sit down too," he suggested, a bit short of breath for some reason.

Crowley seemed only too happy to flop down on his rumpled bed, boneless except for the fingers still squeezed tight around the hard evidence of his effort.

"Whoo- _eee_ ," Crowley said breathlessly. "That's new."

Very slowly, he began to relax and tighten the hand at his crotch, not doing much more than pressing at the flesh and releasing it but evidently enjoying it all the same. As his strokes grew more enthusiastic, his hips and spine rolled in a manner reminiscent of, well, a snake. The low, rumbling noise emerging from the back of Crowley’s throat, however, would have been right at home in the throat of a sabre-toothed tiger.

Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to actually realise that Aziraphale was still in the room, and froze. Wide yellow eyes flashed over to the angel, slit pupils flared in a sea of gold. The distance between the two beds suddenly felt far too small.

"I'll just--"

"No," Aziraphale ordered, in a far stronger voice than he'd thought himself capable of. "Keep going."

Crowley stared. More significantly, he blinked. Twice. "...Yeah?"

"Yes. Please."

"The Arrangement doesn't exactly cover this."

How strange, Aziraphale thought, to be bringing the Arrangement up. They hardly ever talked about it; they'd never officially set it in stone in the first place. Besides, that was business, and this felt decidedly... other than business.

"It's like sushi."

Crowley's expression went cool and rather suggested that he was considering annoyance. "Sorry?"

"I mean, back in the sixties (2) you dragged me off to Japan and got me to try sushi, and we'd never done that before, but it wasn't part of the Arrangement. It was just... new."

Slowly, like he was afraid he might be making a mistake, Crowley pointed out, “You like sushi.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin. "I do."

"A lot."

“Yes.”

“Probably more than’s good for you. Like cheesecake.”

"We're not talking about fish, Crowley," snapped Aziraphale. "Go _on_."

The rasp of Crowley's thumb dragging over hot flesh and straining silk was loud in the silence of the room. Crowley blinked and Aziraphale swallowed and Crowley shivered as he repeated the motion.

The slow flex and turn of Crowley's wrist was mesmerising. When the tongue that flicked out to lick anxiously at Crowley's lips emerged forked and rather thinner than usual, Aziraphale's breath shortened audibly. Aziraphale stared until his eyes burned, fascinated beyond belief by the wet, dark spot that slowly appeared on the purple fabric, right at the spot that made Crowley shiver hardest when he stroked it.

Stretching against the mattress like his body was unconsciously trying to reach for something, Crowley slid his hand up and curled his thumb up and over, pressing the wet fabric down with deliberate pressure. Suddenly the demon's hand was shaking.

"Are-- are you all--"

"Yeah," Crowley grunted, jaw working as if he were holding up the entire Bentley through force of will.

His thumb rubbed faster, sliding hard and sticky-slick over the wet silk. Aziraphale wished desperately that he knew what was _happening_ , that he could see it, but between Crowley's hand and the knickers he couldn't see a thing except the high, tight bulge of Crowley's testicles. Still, from the high whine that was working its way into the demon's breathing, it had to be _something_ good.

"Aren't--" Crowley twisted on the bed, turning his head to look over at Aziraphale with feverish gold eyes. "Aren't you going to try it?"

Aziraphale froze, struck by the idea of reaching out to cup the hot weight between Crowley's legs. He wasn't sure he'd know what to _do_ with it, and then Crowley would probably laugh. The demon could laugh at the _worst_ times. "You want me to--"

"Make an-- ngk-- effort of your own. Aren't you?"

"Oh." Aziraphale looked down at his lap, weighing the thought. "No, I don't think so. Not-- not now. You go on, dear boy." He looked back at Crowley, leaning forward attentively.

The black slits of Crowley's pupils flared wide. Hair sticking to his face, breath whining desperately through his nostrils, tension trembling in his curled toes and taut thighs, he tightened his grip convulsively. The steady motion of his arm jerked and faltered.

" _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale snapped impatiently. “Just _do_ it.”

Crowley jerked and arched his hips clear off the bed, the fingers of his free hand scrabbling at the sheets. A dark, slick stain burst across the silk beneath his fingers, soaking through the purple lace in a matter of seconds, and, to Aziraphale's very great shock, Crowley threw back his head and screamed.

"Oh," said Aziraphale, very faintly.

Trembling all over, Crowley drew in a shuddering breath. "Ngk," he stuttered, wide eyes tracking dazedly across the ceiling. "Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck."

"You mean-- did we--?"

"I," Crowley corrected shakily, "I did."

"You can do that alone?"

"M'not alone."

"Well, technically--"

"Guh. _Angel_."

With a kind of horrified fascination, Aziraphale got to his feet and hovered over Crowley, reasoning vaguely that he could get up now that it was over. "Crowley, I'm so sorry. That looked-- difficult. Are you hurt?"

"Nnnoooo."

"Here, don't move. I'll get these for you."

Instinct taking over, Aziraphale stroked the hair back from Crowley's feverish face and patted the feebly-swiping hand down to the bed. After that, Crowley meekly allowed Aziraphale to peel off the filthy underwear, being as careful of Crowley's limp limbs as he could. Nose wrinkled, Aziraphale made the knickers disappear.

"Hey," Crowley protested, but seemed far more invested in acting like he was truly limbless once again.

Aziraphale snorted, trying to disguise the lingering shakiness of his hands by wiping them off on his handkerchief and the, for lack of anything else to do, clasping them primly. "You can find another pair."

Crowley cracked open one smeary golden eye. "Yeah?"

Aziraphale swallowed. "Yes."


End file.
